she's only sixteen
by comfortablycurious
Summary: <html><head></head>There are problems with being sixteen, one of which she knows is a lack of experience, a lack of familiarity in certain situations. But this is all too familiar with her. She's used to waking up with cool air against her cold skin, and a dimly lit, shadowy room, with rain pattering against the window. rated T for violence, prequel to he's been sedated.</html>


There are problems with being sixteen, one of which she knows is a lack of experience, a lack of familiarity in certain situations. But this is all too familiar with her. She's used to waking up with cool air against her cold skin, and a dimly lit, shadowy room, with rain pattering against the window as if saying, "Hope, wake up, you've got a day off, you'd better spend it wisely!" Hell, she's used to waking up with plastic nubbins tickling the insides of her nose, and instead of lying comfortably on her side, curled around her sock monkey, she's used to laying straight, with her hands carefully folded over her stomach, softly rising up and down with her chest gently laying over whatever injury or sickness put her in the hospital, none of that sensation is new, not even when they happen at the same time. This time is different, she doesn't know how but it's different. The rain isn't as rejuvenating and soothing as it normally is. It's as though the rain is sad, lightly drumming her window as if saying. "Hope, please wake up this time, don't leave me just yet, please..." She snaps her eyes open when she is brought back to the origin of that phrase. No, it's not the rain thats crying, it's her. She's curled on her side, in on herself, in over the five inch gouge into her liver that is slowly dripping out her life onto the asphalt and gravel. She's unable to move, unable to speak, unable to tear her dying gaze from the shattered remains of a vibranium shield, she'd trusted her life with that shield, but it splintered like weak plastic at the force of that blade, and there's a split second when she thought that she was going to win, that that robotic horror was just a nightmare, that she'd wake up, safe, in her bed. Panting and screaming, and she'd begin to calm down as the door to her room is thrown open, and she's startled. She'd feel the tears rip from her eyes as she's smothered by kisses and soothing, calloused hands and pulled close; and a soft voice constantly reassuring her it's okay, that he's here to keep her safe. So she'd pull her hands up because she's not entirely sure, she's not entirely safe until she feels that beat. The beat that has kept her going for almost eleven years, the solid, pure, unchanging heartbeat of the only person she knows will always be there, will always keep her safe. And she will relax when she hears his voice, taught, like the bowstrings he pulls, and she'll listen to him say the same thing over and over again, different words, but the same message... "You're safe because I will never stop loving you"

But this time around that beat isn't there, the calloused hands aren't stroking her hair, that gravelly voice isn't whispering safety and love into her ear. This isn't a nightmare; and she's brought back to the shield, and her vision focuses, because that's all she can do without causing agony to every cell in her body, to the battered, bloody, and unconscious form of her leader, her captain, whom she was trying with all the power in her body to keep alive. And in a twisted way, she is successful, because of her sacrifice, that gave the rest of the team one more second, one tiny fraction of a second, to get the upper hand, and she sees Steve, barely alive, but still there, still, his chest is rising and falling steadily, fading back into life as she fades out. That's the priority; and she watches as the nightmare is destroyed. She feels her hands and feet begin to go cold and numb as she lays her head back in defeat. The noise around her begins to fade out and slow down, all but one sound. The sound of canine sniffing.

Lucky, what an ironic name, the most lucky dog in the world taken in by the most unlucky family, if it can be called a family. But that's the wonder, because she knows her family is small, broken, even; but it works, and it's founded on love, and bowstrings, and she knows that love is what is taking the tired, bruised, and scared little collie over to her. And of course he sniffs her, and he knows what's wrong, that she won't make it out of this. He nuzzles the nape of her neck, and licks her in an effort to comfort what cannot be comforted. And she finds some miraculous strength still struggling in her arms. So she reaches up and pulls off her tags, and the dog whimpers, because he knows what she will do. She hangs the tags on his neck, and in an effort to feel something, anything, she slides her hand across the dogs muzzle, and let's out a whisper as he runs off to find his master.

"Good boy"

And she moans as the damage in her liver spasms through her again, and she watches as more blood stains her hands. Because, she realizes, nobody is coming, he won't get here in time, the one thing that comforts her in any situation is, for the first time, too far away. She feels the tears falling from her eyes, and running down her dirhty cheeks, making a trail of clean skin in their wake, only to fall onto the hot, stinking asphalt. Letting her vision cloud, and her strength fail. her body relaxes, and she feels herself begin to ebb when the noises come rushing back. Feet frantically pounding on gravel, lining up perfectly with panting, and she is brought back with his voice, a simple, mundane, everyday phrase that is choked out so often it's lost significance, but in this moment, the significance comes rushing back as those steps, that panting, the inhumain sound of so many raw emotions mixing, become suddenly so familiar.

"Oh god, no"

And she knows it will be ok, it has to be. Because those calloused hands have thrown the bow to the side to grab her, and pull her close again. No, it has to be ok, doesn't it? She has to be safe, right? No, she's not safe, she's still dying, she's still bleeding out her life, but she's not alone, she's not solitarily sentenced to watch her life end. And she hears panicked words full of tears, guilt making his heartbeat quicken and become uneven, his breath is hot on her ears, and her tired hands are gripped in a shaking grasp and taken up to meet his lips. She struggles to open her eyes again. There is the traumatized, guilty, and broken face of her closest bond, his silvery gray eyes almost black with indescribable poignancy. He cries, not like how normal people cry, with hitched voices and uneven breathing, no; he cries with his entire body, shaking and wailing in anguish as she lies incoherent against his chest. And she hears the words;

"No, no, don't leave, don't let go, don't let go of me, no, I have you, you're safe, why can't you open your eyes? Goddammit, hope look at me... Look at me, please, I love you s..."

And at that moment, when his voice fades out, the sound of a spider's tears are no longer heard. The voices of the world, the sound of birds chirping, ambulances wailing, the soft sound of sleep, a heart monitor shrieking a deadly note, not once, but twice... They all become louder. And in an instant, it's not him whose talking to her, it's the rain. Because she wakes up, and everything hurts, and it seems as though the whole world is crying, waiting, and deteriorating for her return to consciousness. And she drowsily turns her head to see the man she died and crawled back to protect, sitting beside her, scribbling in his sketchbook. She smiles, because the mission is over, her task is complete, and the rain begins to lose its harsh weeping, and begins to sooth again. She lets out a pained smirk.

"Steve?" She manages to whisper. He looks up, relief, sadness, guilt, filling his still bandaged expression. She figures what Ultron did to him did quite a lot of damage, because he doesn't say anything. He just smiles, a fake smile, but a smile nonetheless, and he turned the sketchbook around. She smiles at the drawing, because it's her; determined and threatening in her suit, holding his shield and facing the robot. The last thing he must've seen before blacking out.

Familiarity floods her mind as the door slowly cracks open. He slowly steps in, posture taught like a bowstring, eyes glittering with misery that ignites into gleeful passion as he sees her awake. He nearly trips running over to her side and throws himself on her, nearly suffocating her with short kisses, and brings her up close to him, tears cascading down his face as he stutters out "I love you" time after time. And she relaxes in his grip, relaxing like a bowstring firing an arrow, because the nightmare is over, the war is finished, the arrow has been released; and she is a victim, but she has survived. She listens to that repetitive beat, hers steadying to match his, and he doesn't let go for three minutes, and he whispers "I'm never letting go again," into her ear and she pulls him closer, because she's not letting go either.


End file.
